


Will You Stay with Me?

by EvAEleanor



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Childhood Memories, Domestic Fluff, Fights, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Legilimency, M/M, Memories, Nightmares, POV Alternating, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Undefined Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24361525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvAEleanor/pseuds/EvAEleanor
Summary: Ten months ago, Draco had found none other than Harry Potter blindly drunk and bleeding outside a Muggle pub. He'd brought him home and hasn't left his side ever since. He looked after him, took care of him when yet another nightmare plagued him.Harry is sure that Draco will leave him at some point, and he can’t let it happen. He can’t have another person leaving his life unexpectedly. So, Harry forces him to leave — after they spend one last night together.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 31
Kudos: 189
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	Will You Stay with Me?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xanthippe74](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xanthippe74/gifts).



> This fic is written for Xanthippe74's prompt **Run - Daugther**  
>  Special Requests: Messed up boys being messed up together, angst, hurt/comfort, secret or forbidden relationship, possibly running away together. 
> 
> I fell in love with the song and though I've listened to it so many times, I still get goosebumps when I hear the first notes playing. I loved writing the fic. 
> 
> Without my fantastic alpha D, this fic wouldn't be anywhere near as good. Thank you. 
> 
> Thanks a million to my beta and personal lifesaver A. I will forever be grateful for your help on this fic. 
> 
> Last but not least, a huge thank you to the Wireless Mods for running this amazing fest.

Holding a tumbler of firewhisky in his hand, Harry sits in an armchair in their apartment. He tilts it from one side to the other; the ice cubes chink against the glass as he tips it back and forth. Harry knows it’s been coming, but he’s in no way prepared for it. 

_Their apartment._ Harry chuckles. _No, it isn’t. It never has been and never will be theirs. It was never his, only ever mine._

He bought it six months ago after Draco had helped him to sell Grimmauld Place. The house he’d spent so many years in. Alone. Draco had made him see that staying there let him spiral down a bit more every day because he couldn’t escape the guilt he felt. 

Harry had slept in Sirius’ room, making himself believe that he would have wanted it like that. He’d tried to keep his memories alive and be close to him that way. It was all he had left. Memories of the only father figure life had ever given him. His godfather's letters and pictures had littered the floor, and Harry had never moved them because it had felt wrong. All of it had felt wrong. Being here. Living after dying. Living in a house that he’d never really been able to make his home. 

More often than not, Harry had found himself in the drawing-room, standing in front of the Black family tree. He’d looked at Bellatrix, the fanatic follower of Voldemort, the burned spot of Andromeda, the woman who had lost almost everything, and then his eyes had always moved to Narcissa. Her love for her son had saved him. She’d been the reason he’d been able to fight Voldemort. And there were also Regulus and a singed piece of tapestry with Sirius' name underneath. Sirius had never said anything really nice about his brother, and he’d died without knowing what Regulus had done. How he’d been the first to reveal Voldemort's horrendous secret and died for it. Sirius would have been proud of his little brother. And maybe more people could have been saved if anyone had ever paid any attention to a bloody house-elf… 

And though Regulus’ room and his scar had already been enough to remind him day in and day out of the Horcruxes, of hunting them and coming close to dying, of him actually having to die, there had been more. Dumbledore had still appeared in the entrance hall every time Harry had entered through the front door. A constant reminder of the professor that had once been his idol, but also the man who had left him at the Dursleys and raised him with a noose around his neck. The Headmaster had known all along that Harry had to die and he hadn’t even possessed the decorum to tell him straight to his face.

Although he’d tried, Harry hadn’t found a way to get rid of the dust-form of the former Headmaster, but he hadn’t wanted to trouble Bill or any other Weasley with it. He’d caused the entire family too much pain already. Bill had been marked forever, George had lost his ear, and Fred—Fred had lost his life for fuck’s sake. Harry had to witness the twin dying right in front of him. 

Harry had also been unable to contact Ron, his best friend. He’d done too much for him already. He’d followed him everywhere, saving his life and barely escaping death on multiple occasions. At that time, Harry had met both his best friends only for lunches or in the Ministry. Most of his time, he’d spent here in his house, cursing the various paintings, hating that he was still here drowning in expectations and supposed to live up to something he’d never been — a hero. 

There had been another room, a room that Harry had barely set foot in since he’d moved back into the house after the war — the kitchen. Just standing in the doorframe was too much for him because he could see them all. All the members of the Order sitting at the table joking, conversing casually or arguing. So many of them had given their lives to protect his; Sirius had died saving him and his friends because Harry stupidly walked right into a trap. Without him and the other Order members, all his friends certainly would have died. Mad-Eye was killed while protecting him only a year later. Remus had finally found someone after all this time spent alone, only to find a premature end. He and Tonks would never hold Teddy again, read him bedtime stories or see him being sorted. Because of him… 

All of them were gone but had lingered within these walls, closing in inch by inch, leaving no space for his own life.

  


* * *

  


Draco steps out of the lift and stops dead in his tracks. His heart immediately picks up speed, beating hard in his chest, and he nearly drops all the groceries he’s carrying. The air feels dense, and light tingles are running over his body. He knows what it is — Harry’s magic. It’s everywhere, causing the entire floor to tremble lightly. Never before has it been this intense, but Draco knows the signature. Fumbling nervously in his pockets for his keys, he enters the apartment.

He doffs his coat and shoes and walks to the kitchen, depositing the bag on the kitchen counter. Draco espies Harry from the corner of his eyes. The magic draws him straight to him, the pull becomes stronger the closer he gets to the source. Moving to stand in front of the kitchen island, Draco grabs the marble, clutching it tightly, and takes in the sight in front of him. 

Harry is still dressed in his Auror robes, sitting in his favourite armchair. His back is hunched and his arms rest on his thighs, head looking down at the floorboards. The most alarming object in the scene in front of him, however, is the tumbler Harry is moving in his hand. Draco swallows hard, silently praying that he hasn’t already taken a sip. He thought they were past that.

Draco remembers the day as if it were yesterday. He found him, the Saviour of the wizarding world, outside a Muggle pub, bleeding and almost unconscious — or maybe just blind drunk — it was difficult to tell. Most people wouldn’t have recognised him without his glasses, the scar hidden underneath the raven hair and the bruises, but Draco wasn’t most people. He’d recognised him at the Manor, when his face had been deformed by that nasty hex, after all. It was, therefore, a simple task to be sure then, even if Potter lay in the shadows of the building. 

He checked if Granger and/or Weasley were with him only to discover that Potter was all by himself. Draco couldn’t leave him there. It wasn’t right. Potter had saved his life in the Room of Requirement and had spoken in his favour at his trial. Draco walked over to him, kneeling down to get a better look. There was a cut over his right eye, his bottom lip was split, and a nasty bruise was blossoming on his left cheek. And those were only the visible injuries. He couldn’t magically check for any other internal injuries with so many Muggles in their immediate vicinity. Hence, Draco grabbed his arm and pulled him gently into a more or less standing position before slinging his arm around his shoulders and dragging Potter to the next alleyway. The next Floo was too far away, and he honestly wanted to get him home as quickly as possible, lowering the chances of them being seen together and anyone accusing him of having injured their precious Golden Boy. Therefore, Draco had to risk Apparating with him. 

“Potter,” he spoke, panting because, Salazar, the man was heavy. 

All he received was some fuzzy sounds that may or may not have been words. 

“Potter!” Draco yelled. 

“Mmh…” 

“I need your address. Where do you live?”

“immaulace,” Potter slurred. 

The upside was that it was easier than he’d expected to get Potter to tell him his address. Back then, Draco wondered if this wasn’t the first time someone had to bring Potter home after he’d had a drop too much. 

On the downside, he hadn’t understood any single word. 

“Try to articulate.” 

“Telv immaul lace,” he slurred again, his head now resting on Draco’s shoulder. 

Draco sighed in frustration. “Again.” 

“Twel Rimmaul Pace.” 

They continued to walk, Draco attempting to put the pieces together. When it finally hit him, he knitted his brow. _How can Potter be living in the old Black family home? There are barely any Blacks alive._

After scanning the alleyway they’d walked into one last time, Draco pulled him close and Apparated on the spot, landing in front of terraced houses. Their feet had barely touched the ground when Potter fell sideways and began to cover the street with the contents of his stomach. Although Draco was disgusted and wrinkled his nose at the awful smell, he helped Potter up again, walking him to his house. After Draco magically opened the door, he wondered for a second if he could get through the wards the house would certainly possess. Luckily, he could.

Since that night, the pair hasn’t spent one night apart. That night ten months ago.

  


* * *

  


Harry doesn’t look up. He’d been lost in thought when Draco had apparently entered the apartment, but he could feel his presence now. Whenever he’s in close vicinity to Harry, he can feel Draco’s magic running like cool air through his body, mitigating his pain. 

Harry can hear and sense him coming closer. He looks at the glass in his hand, weighing his options. If he drinks now, Draco might leave right away, making things easy for him. Or, he might knock the glass from his hand and yell at him. He favours neither of these options. 

Instead of meeting his eyes, Harry turns his head and follows the trail of light which shines through the windows, leading him to their bedroom. His gaze lands on his clothes, dispersed on nearly every surface, including the floor. There are also two mugs on his bedside table, and sweet wrappers hidden badly underneath his side of the bed. On the left, partly concealed behind the door, is a big albeit congested closet. Three out of four doors can’t be fully closed. They all contain Draco’s clothes. The furthest on the left is his. In there is all he needs. He doesn’t like going shopping and the concept of fashion is lost on him; Draco has remarked on that more than once.

A smile spreads across Harry’s face. Draco always wanted to cast an extension charm so that every single piece of clothing would fit in it. He refused to shrink them. When Harry said no, Draco began to rant about his inability to keep the apartment clean. While his rants and comments had driven Harry mad during their time at Hogwarts, and he’d constantly wanted to punch him, it was different now. Everything had changed during the last ten months. Instead of feeling the urge to wipe that stupid smirk off Draco’s face, Harry usually began to giggle. That one time especially, Harry couldn't hold back his laughter, he’d made him angry, adorably angry. So, Draco began to pick up item after item, throwing them at him while pretending to yell heatedly. In reality, he himself had trouble keeping a serious face. Draco shouted at Harry about what a lazy sod he was, that they owned a bloody laundry basket and that it couldn’t be so hard to grab his stuff and put it in said basket! 

“Look who’s talking,” Harry said as he opened one closet door. 

Draco hadn’t been fast enough to whip his wand to try to prevent his clothes from dropping to the floor. Harry laughed lustily when a huge pile just fell from the shelves. 

“At least I’m not such a material person!” he almost shouted between giggles. 

He remembered how Draco glared at him, yelling, “Take that back!” before throwing two dirty socks at him. 

It escalated into a proper clothes fight after that; they ran through the apartment, shouting and laughing. Draco nearly slipped twice on the polished wooden floors before he took his socks off and threw them straight at Harry — or aimed for the general area. Draco’s aim was terrible. No wonder he was never considered to play Beater or Chaser. Soon after that, Draco picked up pillows from the big couch in frustration because Harry always ducked or moved quickly enough so that none of the clothes hit him. 

“How. Do. You. Do. It,” he shouted, throwing a cushion after every word. 

Harry dodged the first two and ran to the bedroom for cover, and when Draco chased after him, Harry tackled him, landing them in bed. Draco retaliated, picking up a pillow and whacking it in the direction of his face. Harry caught it just in time, threw it aside and pinned Draco to the bed. 

Draco really should’ve known better than to raise his eyebrows in challenge.

  


* * *

  


Draco doesn’t know what to make of Harry’s sudden change in demeanour. He appears lost in thought, but he's happy? Following his line of sight to some place in the bedroom, Draco tries to make out what he’s looking at, to make out his thoughts when his eyes go back and forth between the bedroom and Harry, but he fails to connect the dots. Harry, however, is unreachable.

As he gazes intently at the man in front of him, he sees the jaw muscles working, his very focused eyes and the tumbler lighting swaying in his hand. Draco knows something is off. Even more than during the last weeks. He’s felt Harry sliding away from him. Day by day he got further; Draco had barely been able to keep him in this realm. 

Draco can visibly follow the change of Harry’s face. From happiness back to torment within minutes. It reminds Draco of how he looks when he wakes up, drenched in sweat after nightmares. 

In the beginning, when Draco helped Harry to stay away from alcohol, he wasn’t sure if the sweats were a symptom of the detox or, as he feared, nightmares. Nightmares similar to those that had plagued him for so long. They still came from time to time, but not as frequently and as extreme as Harry’s. That was when Draco understood why the other had abandoned himself to drinking. 

Handling Harry’s nightmares was difficult in the beginning. Draco couldn’t handle physical contact when he awoke from one, most of the time. The images in his mind were still too fresh; all the things they’d forced him to do, how they’d used the curse on him until he screamed in agony. He assumed that it would be the same for Harry. What a horrible mistake. Harry didn’t reach out to him — maybe too scared that Draco would leave — but he _craved_ contact. His eyes were full of sadness and hurt, and Draco simply didn’t understand, although he desperately wanted to. 

During the fourth consecutive night of nightmares, he pulled him in; as Harry’s head rested on his shoulder, Draco began to run his fingers through the raven hair, lightly massaging his scalp. But even as Harry’s arm lay across his upper body, he was still unsure if it was the right thing to do. All of his doubts flew out of the window when Harry let out a contented sigh and Draco felt him relaxing before he eventually fell asleep. 

Draco also learned with time that, on rare occasions, it wasn’t enough. Harry was still restless during those nights, even after Draco pulled him close. But he never spoke a word. After trying different things, Draco eventually found the perfect position. Harry would lay half on top of Draco's body — allowing more skin contact. One leg was stretched across Draco’s hips while Harry’s head was positioned in a way that allowed Harry to nuzzle at his neck and hair. Apparently, Harry needed not only more skin contact but his smell as well when the nights were truly horrible. Draco would tighten his embrace until he felt Harry relaxing. Sometimes, Draco pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

They never spoke a word at night. They would lie in bed in each other’s company and listen closely to the sound of their beating hearts. Reminding them that even after all they’d been through, they were still here. Alive. They shouldn't be. But for whatever reason they were. While Draco makes the calls at night, Harry always gets up first, cooking them a big breakfast the next morning. Whether because he wanted to thank Draco for taking care of him or cheer him up after he had a bad night himself. At one time or another, Harry absentmindedly dropped words like _him_ , _them_ or _death_ while standing behind the stove, leaving the rest to Draco's imagination.

  


* * *

  


Harry can see Draco, sitting down in front of him. He takes a deep breath when his magic rushes through his body. It will be the last night together for the two of them. Draco isn't aware of it yet, but Harry is. It's not fair to him, the man who’s taken care of him for almost a year. It had been Draco who had pulled him out of the shadows and had shown him what love really felt like. 

He exhales shakingly. It has to be done tonight, or he might change his mind and let him stay. The fallout would be worse then. Harry couldn't bear to see Draco leave after realising that he’s much better off without him. That he’s pulling him back into the dark that Draco has fought so hard to leave behind. 

Harry can't leave it behind. It had all begun with the unwanted prophecy, but then Harry himself turned it into his job. Finding traces of dark magic and arresting the dark wizards who used it. 

After the war, no one had given him time to breathe. He’d been the personification of bravery, strength, and hope. His face plastered on the front page of every paper for months, people paraded him around and invited everywhere. When Kingsley had suggested that he could join the Aurors even without the required N.E.W.T.s, he’d jumped at the chance because it would keep him busy and away from the public. He’d spend the next years hunting down the last supporters of Voldemort, the wizards that, unlike Draco, had fled from justice and still practised dark magic and upheld racist ideas. 

Harry believed that he could deal with all of it easily. It should all be alright with Ron by his side. His best friend who’d fought by his side during so many battles. He’d lost his brother in the war and still came out strong. Why couldn’t Harry do the same? Why was his job slowly burning him out from the inside? Why was he drowning himself in alcohol, sometimes even provoking fights in Muggle pubs? Why were people nice to him, calling him taxis — after he refused to go to a hospital — to bring him home? He shouldn’t need help. He _couldn't_ need help. He was supposed to be _the_ hero. He ought to save everyone. 

Harry lets his head sink lower as his thoughts travel back to his friends. _Ron and Hermione leave tomorrow._ He has known for six weeks now, but today, when Ron cleared his desk, it came crashing down on him. _To Australia… That’s what they told me at least._ But he’s sure that there’s more to it. Something they aren’t or can’t tell him because they never gave him an address or told him when they plan to return.

At least, they've promised to contact him. A scant consolation because Harry knows how these things work out. Regular contact in the beginning would turn into weekly, then monthly contact, and sooner or later they would only call or write on birthdays, maybe meet on important occasions in a pub to drink a pint together, talking about the past and feeding him the latest news. It had happened with Neville, Luna, Dean and Seamus, and so many others. The thought of it happening to three of them is another nail in his coffin.

  


* * *

  


Draco shifts closer on his knees, grasping Harry’s hand. He strokes the back of it a couple of times before he gathers enough courage to reach for the tumbler. In a slow, steady motion, he withdraws the drinkware from the tanned fingers and sets it on the table. 

Now, with that obstacle out of the way, he can fully concentrate on the man in front of him. Draco closes his eyes and lets Harry’s magic flow through him. It’s already developed from just tingles to colossal waves the closer he came to him, booming ruthlessly through his system, engulfing every inch of him, pushing on him. Now that he’s right in front of him, it’s changed. One second, it feels like his magic is beckoning him close, the next as if he’s pushing him away. A constant back and forth. Draco stretches to kneel upright withstanding the drag and pull of Harry’s magic and slowly leans forward, placing his head on his shoulder and encompasses him in a tender embrace, one hand in his messy hair. 

Draco battles Harry’s magic with his own, intending to calm him down, but simultaneously he tries to keep his head above the water. The muscles in Harry’s shoulder remain tense, no sign of relaxation. Suddenly, a shot of magic hits him, causing Draco to retreat. He swallows down hard as Harry straightens himself, leaning against the back of his chair, his eyes staring out of the window. Draco feels paralyzed; Harry has never used his magic against him, though there had been multiple opportunities and reasons. 

Like the time Draco was so angry with Harry that he’d thrown dishes at him, and Harry didn’t even flinch. He just stood against the wall as one after the other, china came flying his way; the porcelain shattered into pieces next to him. Then, he cast a Reparo on all of them, picking everything up and putting them back in the cupboard. 

Draco didn’t move an inch when Harry came over to put all the porcelain away. It was as if a Sticking Charm was keeping him glued to his spot when he comprehended what had just happened. There was no excuse for it, but he tried. He cried as he made his apologies, begging Harry for forgiveness as he’d never done in his life. And Harry held him and assured him that though he was very angry with him, it would be alright. They never talked about it again, but Draco never forgave himself — above all because to this day he couldn’t even remember what initially triggered the outburst. It wasn’t important enough to remember but had nearly cost him dearly. 

Another occasion comes to his mind. Harry came home late after an incredibly long day at work. They’d gotten a lead that took them to another Death Eater who’d been hiding in Wales for quite some time. Three other Aurors had been mauled by that bloke. 

Draco, dressed in one of Harry’s shirts and a pair of his own joggers, was reading a book that had just arrived at work. In order to help the customers, he always began to read the most expected books on the same day they arrived in the bookstore. He smiled at Harry when he entered the flat, but that day the warm welcome was one-sided. Cold shivers expanded through his body when he saw Harry’s eyes moving from the Dark Mark imprinted on his arm back to his face, the hatred and disgust evident in the emerald. 

Harry unleashed all his anger on Draco, called him names, deprecated him. Draco fled to the bathroom, slammed the door shut, leaning against the cold wood as the tears streamed down his cheeks. When Draco opened the door eventually, Harry sat against a wall, his eyes red from crying, his voice gravelly from hours of pleading with Draco to let him in. They hurried to each other and sank back to the floor, holding each other tight, Harry a weeping mess.

But even then, even in those situations, Harry hadn’t used his magic against him. Never. Until now.

  


* * *

  


_Now or never_ , Harry thinks as he draws in air. _Rip the plaster off._

“Will you stay with me for another night?” Harry asks, more rhetorically than seriously. Nevertheless, he isn’t sure what he’d do if Draco spurned the offer. 

They never asked. Draco stayed and Harry said jokingly that he should start paying rent, and that Draco reminds him of a cat that you feed once and always returns. Draco would retort that Harry should be glad that he’s putting up with the lazy sod that he is. 

They also never talked about the war or anything past fifth year. He doesn't because his life hadn’t been his; his entire path has been predefined by a stupid prophecy that had been made when he was still in the cradle. Harry had to _die_ for Merlin’s sake, only to take somebody else’s life. Hundreds of people had perished, leaving holes in everybody that had survived, making them hollow. Incomplete. Often, he wished that he’d been among the number. No press, no pressure. But also no Draco. 

The thought sends shivers through his body. He’s immensely grateful; he owes so much to him. He loves him — not that he’s told him that though — making it so much harder to let him go. But he has too. The longer Draco’s around, the less Harry can imagine a life without him. But he can’t stand the pain he’s causing him. The last weeks have made it very clear to Harry how willingly Draco makes himself vulnerable for his sake. Even at his own expense. 

One day, he’ll wake up and realise how much Harry has taken from him and leave. It’s just a matter of time. So, Harry is forcing himself to do it now and be done with it. All the people matter most to him would then be gone at the same time. All of them, Draco included, will be better off without him. He’d stay behind, alone, and fight until the fire consumes him. 

A cursory glance at Draco shows that he nods once. That he will stay tonight. 

Harry feels bad for what he’s going to say next. He’s tricked Draco on purpose. If Draco gave his word to do something, he’d stick to it. Thinking about it, maybe Harry had expected him to say no… 

"One last night. Tomorrow morning you'll be gone." 

Harry has hoped to see something, anything, but there’s no visible reaction on Draco's face for minutes. It is as if this — whatever it is — doesn’t really matter to Draco, at all. When Draco finally opens his mouth, Harry beats him to it. 

"No matter what, you _will_ leave tomorrow morning and not come back." His eyes are determined, fixed on him, and he speaks in a deep, commanding voice that he usually reserves for work. He knows exactly how stern he looks, with his jaw tight, and a hard expression on his face hard. It’s practised from so many years of work.

  


* * *

  


Leave — _leave_ — LEAVE. The word plays on repeat in Draco’s head, shutting down all other thoughts, but it’s impossible for Draco to put a stopper on his emotions. His initial shock is replaced seconds later by the ambition to not let Harry in on his real feelings. He tries his best to quell them, to hide behind what he hopes is a neutral expression. He can't break down right now, not when he’s allowed to stay here, even if just for one night. All he needs to know is discernible on Harry's face; the sincerity of his decision, the take-it-or-leave-it attitude edging onto his features. 

The magic surrounding Draco threatens to consume him. Hoping to come across as unphased, he stands up with enormous effort and turns away from Harry. Draco swallows hard. Although he’s finally slipped behind his well-practised mask again, he can only hope that Harry hasn’t noticed how much his words have hurt him in the few seconds before it was on his face. He’s rusty when it comes to applying it; he hasn’t needed it for such a long time. 

Meanwhile, he mentally goes through all options he can think off. They could watch telly with him like they do on some nights. 

He thinks back to all the times they’ve spent in front of the 'horrendous black box' as he’d called it when Harry had bought it for the new apartment. The pair of them usually sit next to each other on the couch whenever the telly was on, sharing a blanket and eating popcorn, crisps, or whatever snacks were available. On some occasions, Draco had rested his head in Harry’s lap and the other man had seized the opportunity to run his hands through his white-blond hair, or Harry had placed his head on Draco’s shoulder, and he'd wrapped his arm around the Harry, his hand stroking his upper arm. They’d tended to fall asleep on the couch, and Draco always woke up with heavy eyes. It’s not really an appealing prospect right now.

Spotting the bags he's forgotten about on the counter, the thought of cooking the dinner he'd been shopping for briefly crosses his mind, but he isn’t hungry at all. And whenever they’re cooking together it’s this sweet little affair that involves Harry cutting all the fresh ingredients because Draco hates having the smell of garlic and vegetables on his fingers. Then he’d stand at the stove and do the actual cooking with or without Harry's help. Harry usually hugged him from behind, pressing sweet little kisses on his neck. That always earns him some scolding because it distracts Draco from the task in front of him. 

But he doesn’t feel like they’re the right things to do on their last night together. He takes another breath, pushing the memories aside. 

All Draco can think of at this moment is savouring every minute until he leaves the flat. With his head held high, he walks to the bedroom and exchanges his clothes for his favourite pyjama bottoms before climbing under the covers. All he wants to do is to hold him tonight. Make sure Harry is as stable as possible before he leaves him tomorrow; the images of him holding a glass full of alcohol are still fresh in his mind.

  


* * *

  


Harry isn't sure how to proceed after the words have finally slipped out of his mouth. Draco doesn't seem to have a clue either, at least before he enters their bedroom. Until dawn, it’ll be _theirs_. But as soon as Draco leaves, he’ll sleep in the big bed alone, memories of Draco staying behind. He’s going to cherish every single one of them and try to look back fondly to the time they had together. 

He looks over to the bedroom. Draco is laying on his pillow, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Harry, with a heavy heart, makes his way to the room, discards his robes and joins Draco in just his boxer briefs as he does every night. It's still early but he doesn't care, the day has been emotionally exhausting enough. 

He’s relieved when Draco pulls him in straight away, making him lie half on top of him as he usually only does after Harry had a nightmare. Normally, they face each other, one hand of each interlaced in the middle. It had begun in Grimmauld Place where they’d fallen asleep either after or whilst talking — it had been hard to tell — and had remained in that position. Tonight is different. Tonight all bets are off. 

Harry does the rest and brings his leg up, stretching it across Draco's hips, and puts his hand on his shoulder. They lie in the dark of the room together, the lights of the city shining through the floor to ceiling windows that covered almost two of the walls. They’d been the selling point for this apartment; both of them had spent too many days in dark, grim rooms. 

The first night here after they’d moved in, the pair of them just sat against the headboard of the bed, watching the busy city from their warm, cosy spot. It was the moment Draco turned his head and smiled at him in the semi-dark that Harry knew. He knew that he’d fallen deeply in love with the man next to him. 

Harry wanted to tell him then, but he couldn’t. And for some reason, he just never did. He’s fairly certain that Draco feels the same way, but he’s also kept it to himself. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his side... That would make it easier for Harry; to know that he’s the only one who’s lost and broken his heart.

The entire day comes rushing back to his mind. As he begins to tremble, he moves his head so he’s able to listen to Draco’s heart beating. The steady rhythm helps to calm him down. After a while, he rearranges himself once again, burying his nose in the silky hair and inhales his scent whilst peppering light kisses to the skin available to him. The smell of Draco’s crisp shampoo mixed with his natural sweet scent has never failed to relax Harry entirely.

But the feeling lasts only for a brief moment before it's replaced by guilt. All he’s done today is use everything he’s learned about Draco to make him fulfil his own wishes. Despite that, there’s still one more thing that he really would like him to do, but it’s one of the reasons Harry is breaking it off. If he asks Draco for this particular thing, he will open himself up again and make himself vulnerable. Harry _can’t_ ask...

  


* * *

  


A warm, pleasant shiver flows through Draco’s body when he feels the soft kisses Harry presses to his neck. His magic is focused again, instead of sending quivers through their floor. He enjoys them, basks in the warm sensation that spreads through his body, and hates it when Harry stops. One moment has passed. Every heartbeat is bringing him closer to stepping over the threshold for the final time.

Draco can feel the tense muscles underneath his fingertips, forcing his focus shift back to the man lying on top of him. He runs his hand in a soothing motion over Harry’s arm and sides. 

“What’s bothering you?” he asks softly. 

He can feel Harry shaking his head. The raven hair tickles his face. The stubble scratches a bit. 

“Please, talk to me. It can’t be as bad as—” He nearly says having the Dark Lord as a house guest but falls silent before the words can leave his mouth. They barely mention him normally, and bringing him up in Harry’s current state could be disastrous. 

When there’s no reply again, he shifts slightly, placing a finger under Harry’s stubbled chin and nudges it gingerly upwards, forcing Harry to meet his gaze. As a sentence forms in his mind, Draco closes his eyes for a moment to collect himself and keep his emotions in check. It had been easier when he wasn’t looking at Harry’s face and able to the see his emerald eyes, which are reflecting the flickering lights from the busy city outside. 

His heart picks up speed when he finally says, “Listen to me, we only have so many hours left together. I insist that you speak your mind.” 

No answer. 

Although his face remains expressionless, Draco gets nervous and furious; the prospect of spending his last hours with Harry guessing and worrying drives him up the wall. 

“Harry,” he snarls. Shocked by his own tone, he adds a gentle, “Please.”

Draco can see the wheels turning in his head and urges him on by narrowing his eyes at him. He can feel Harry taking a deep breath before sighing audibly. 

“Fine,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth. “I—I don’t want to be here right now, ok? I’d like for you to take me away again, but—” 

“Ok,” Draco interrupts him; he doesn’t want to lose precious minutes by arguing. “What would you like to see tonight?” he asks, already going through his memories. 

Six weeks ago, Harry said for the first time that he wished he could be anywhere but here after he’d woken up from yet another nightmare. Draco, baffled at first, searched for a solution and began to talk about one of his holidays in a small wizarding village near Avignon. He’d spent two weeks there in May when he was eight. 

Draco described his private tour through the Palais des Papes. Recounted all the other spectacular sights, among them Pont Saint-Bénézet or la cathédrale Notre-Dame-des-Doms, which he’d seen when he’d walked through the streets. And then he told Harry about the violently purple lavender fields that had surrounded the mansion they’d stayed in. They’d gone on for miles, and Draco had often gone for walks with a house-elf when his parents couldn’t be bothered.

A week later, following another nightmare, Harry asked again and Draco told him about another holiday — Portugal this time. He could feel the smile spreading across Harry’s face the more he spoke. Just before Harry drifted back to sleep, he had mumbled something about wishing he could actually see all of it. 

Draco didn't think much about it at first, at least not until Harry asked once more. Draco had already noticed that the nightmares came more frequently these days, twice a week at least, and although he’d tried to make him talk, Harry never shared anything. When the question was asked again, Draco decided to let Harry in his mind; he was a decent enough Occlumens to steer him away from anything that might cause trouble or raise unwanted questions. 

"There might be a way for you to see," he told him. Harry looked up with a quizzical brow and Draco elaborated. "Last time, you mentioned that you'd like to see the places yourself. You could if you’d use Legilimency on me."

After a short argument, Harry eventually gave in and cast the spell and connected their minds. It felt similar, albeit, at the same time, eminently different to the other times somebody had done it before. Bellatrix’s magic had been as fierce as the witch herself. Whenever she’d pierced his mind during their so-called training sessions, her intention had been to reveal Draco’s worst memories, using Legilimency as another form of torture. And then his Godfather… Well, Severus had been different. His lessons had still been difficult, but at least he’d actually taught him all Draco needed to know about Occlumency. He’d pushed Draco’s boundaries, but his aim was to uncover everything that could be used against him. His godfather had shown him how to conceal his thoughts and memories properly. Severus’ magic had always flooded his entire mind, in a gentle though none the less thorough manner. 

When Harry entered Draco’s mind, he felt the strength of his magic, but it hadn’t been anywhere near as overwhelming as his godfather’s, or as savage and brutal as his lunatic of an aunt’s. After the initial sharp pain when the spell had hit, it felt more like he was waiting for Draco to take charge, making it easier for him to navigate Harry around. And soon, allowing Harry in became a regular occurrence.

While the first time had been short, whenever they formed that connection again, the time Harry spent in his mind increased. Draco was always left in a weakened state afterwards — on some occasions he was on the verge of turning into a weeping mess — but Harry almost always fell asleep straight away when they’d finished, and therefore couldn’t notice. But he didn’t mind. He’d offered, so the other man shouldn’t feel guilty. The smile on Harry’s sleeping face was enough for Draco to continue, no matter the costs. No matter what it does to him.

  


* * *

  


“Somewhere new," Harry speaks without thinking and instantly hates himself. 

Draco will doubtlessly share another memory with him. Harry should’ve just said Rhodos or Sicily because he loves the places as well as the stories they come with. But no, he couldn’t just make it easy for Draco. Instead, he’s a greedy, selfish bastard, who demands more and more, knowing full well how it affects Draco. He’s never said a word, but Harry has seen the drained, pained expression on his face every morning after. 

Still, Draco turns his head to the ceiling. 

“Ok,” Harry hears him say. ”Just… Let me think for a minute.” 

In place of replying, Harry presses a shaky kiss to his jawline. 

_I don’t deserve him. I know he’ll be happier without me in his life._

By gripping Draco’s shoulder tighter, Harry fights the urge to bring his hand to his face and caress his cheek. It would result in a different kind of kiss. The kind that might lead to more, messing up the fucked up situation further. 

"I think… I'm ready," Draco speaks, his voice laced with a hint of sadness. 

Harry knows, on the one hand, he shouldn’t be doing it. He should be telling him that it was a bad idea and he just wants to lie here with him, being held until it’s time for Draco to leave. On the other hand, he wants to be as close as possible to the man he loves for the last time. Experience his past. Explore a new place Draco has been to. And share a little more of himself with Harry. 

So, Harry rolls off Draco, reaching for his wand on the bedside table, and rolls back to face Draco.

“Venice, the summer before Hogwarts, during la Festa del Redentore,” Draco explains the scenario as he’s always done before Harry casts the spell. 

Harry points the tip of his wand in the direction of Draco’s face and looks into his grey eyes one last time before saying the incantation. 

Immediately, there’s a slight pull, and then Harry is travelling down the black tunnel of Draco’s mind, passing colourful strings of light of other memories, all the while coming closer to an image. It becomes clearer and bigger the closer he gets. He can see a young Draco, in what can easily be mistaken for posh Muggle clothes, and a younger Narcissa in a simple though elegant dress. They almost blend into the crowd, only their pale skin and the white-blond hair making them stand out amongst the masses. The streets are buzzing with people, and the canals are full of boats. Draco stands against the railing, watching the boats on the water. He looks up to his mother and smiles at her. Narcissa stands protectively behind her son, shielding him from the crowd. The pair simply looks happy, despite being surrounded by thousands of Muggles. 

Harry swallows hard. It’s heart-wrenching to see Draco like this. Before Hogwarts, before Voldemort came back and he was forced to become a Death Eater, and before he was forced to torture. Right here and now, Draco is just a carefree child in the middle of a crowd with his mother. 

Suddenly, it’s night. Draco and Narcissa are sitting on a private balcony, the empty plates from dinner still in front of them. She waves her wand and lets the table disappear. Then, as she gets up, she asks Draco to stand. All her words are spoken softly, full of love. Narcissa transfigures the chairs into a couch. They sit back down and then it begins. 

The fireworks. 

Incredible, breathtaking fireworks over the skyline of Venice; the colours reflect in Draco’s eyes. His stare is fixed on them for minutes, and Harry can see the smile on the boy’s lips mirrored in his eyes. 

Then, it all fades away. 

He’s back in his bedroom again, lying next to a panting Draco. And Harry kisses him. Once, twice, so many times that he loses count. Tears fall from his eyes, but he doesn’t care. It’s a thank you, an apology, and maybe even a declaration of some sort. 

When they finally break apart, he puts his wand on the bedside table, settles back next to Draco and waits.

  


* * *

  


After he’s just shared one of his most precious childhood memories, Draco’s weary, his breath slowly returning to normal. Harry’s lips are an echo on his, although the other man has stopped kissing him. Coldness fills his body. When Harry doesn’t come back to him after putting his wand away, he begins to shiver. With trembling fingers, he reaches out to him — for what he supposes will be the last time — and draws him in. He buries his hand in the rumpled raven hair and holds him tight. Harry eventually falls asleep. Draco doesn’t even notice when he follows him to dreamland. When he feels a trembling body on top of him, he’s suddenly wide awake again.

At first, Harry mumbles something unintelligible, but suddenly it turns desperate.

“No. No. _NO_ ,” Harry shouts. 

In shock, Draco let’s go of him, and seconds later, Harry shoots upwards, wide awake. Slowly, Draco sits up next to him and is able to see the pain and distress on his features. Draco swallows hard and takes a deep breath before he grabs hold of his hand and begins to rub the back of it. He’s anticipated that the ghosts will haunt Harry again tonight. The past six nights have been exactly like this one, aside from them falling asleep in each other’s arms. Harry showing him earlier what a vulnerable state he’s in had strengthened Draco’s presumptions.

He really wants to know what’s wrong with Harry. There have been more attempts lately from his side, trying to get the man to talk… Feeble attempts though, if Draco is honest with himself. Every time the topic’s gone in that direction, Harry has shut down immediately.

Harry turns to him and sobs against Draco’s chest; he apparently has trouble breathing. Without even blinking, Draco kisses his sweat-damp hair, wrapping his arms around him in a protective manner. 

“I’m here Harry. Just concentrate on me breathing, ok? Can you do that?” Draco asks him.

While he inhales and exhales as deeply and slowly as possible, Draco’s mind is swirling, coming up with different scenarios about what might happen once he leaves. When he isn't here anymore to help him. 

_Harry willingly signing up for one of those missions in God-knows-where that don’t end well._

_Harry picking up that tumbler he’d taken from his hand and set on the table, drinking himself into oblivion again._

_Harry not paying attention at work and…_

Draco forces his eyes shut; he has to concentrate on helping him right now. Despite the horrible thoughts in his head, he manages to breathe evenly and calmly due to months of practice. When it comes to Harry, he’s never thought twice. Draco had picked him up when he knew nobody else was around and helped him as much as possible. He’d fallen for him, the _real_ Potter, not the one the Wizarding World believed him to be. Not the Saviour or the Boy Who Lived, but the million little things that made him Harry. 

He loves the looks Harry shoots him across the pub when Draco stands at the bar to order more drinks. Harry's determined eyes when he sees a wrong he has to right, and the way those deep green eyes look at him before they fall asleep. 

He loves the way Harry smiles at him when he changes from his jeans and button-down shirt into one of his t-shirts or jumpers and jogging bottoms. Harry kissing his hand for no real reason. The pleased sounds that fall from his mouth when Draco reads to him. 

He loves the late Sunday mornings spent in bed. The lazy kisses Harry places on his lips that sometimes lead to leisure fucks. The lovemaking in the shower.

There are a million other things he could list, but he chooses not to. It hurts too much.

When he can hear that Harry’s breathing is back to normal and feels him relaxing in his arms, Draco manoeuvres them back on the mattress. They're lying in the same position as before the nightmare startled them out of their sleep. Draco can feel Harry's breaths against the short hair on his neck, causing his flesh to crawl. He tightens his grip to make Harry feel safe and help him to fall back to sleep.

Draco watches the sky changing from almost black to dark blue, the tone gradually becoming lighter as time moves on. He’s wide awake and tries not to think about this being their final hours. At one point, he looks at the alarm clock on the bedside table and sees that it's, unfortunately, time to leave. He has to go to work. 

Harry is still fast asleep after Draco manages to untangle himself and slip out from underneath him. He picks up his wand from where it lies next to Harry's, casting a Silencing Charm over Harry’s sleeping form and Accios his bag. After performing an Extension Charm on the bag, he summons his clothes. He quickly changes into yesterday's outfit, not bothering to select anything new. The shirt still smells weakly like Harry. 

For one last time, Draco leans over the bed and kisses his lips very gently so as to not wake him up. He puts the keys on the kitchen island on his way to the door where he robotically puts on his coat and shoes. 

He risks one last look over his shoulder before he opens the door, steps outside and closes it behind himself. For good.

  


* * *

  


When Harry wakes up, the space next to him is lukewarm but empty. He must’ve missed him by minutes. He gets up, his bare feet echoing in the empty flat as he makes his way to the bathroom. Done with his morning routine, Harry grabs for a crumpled shirt lying on top of the laundry basket. Though it’s one of his, Draco had worn it the day before yesterday on his day off. He slips into it and goes to the kitchen to fetch himself a glass of water. 

When he turns around and begins to drink, he sees the keys on the island. Harry looks over through the open door into the bedroom, spotting that the doors of their wardrobe are all closed now. He plonks the glass on the marble top, breaking a part on it in the process. 

He picks up the piece, and it all becomes reality. 

_He’s gone._

Realisation hits him like a bludger in the chest. 

_Draco is really gone and he won’t come back._

He should be relieved. It’s what he told Draco to do. And, as always, he’d kept his word. 

But every beat of his heart hurts. His head is numb, and his mind is clouded by emotions; he’s unable to form a single thought. Suddenly, the flat feels empty without him, dismal and colourless. 

Harry goes back to the bedroom and slumps onto the mattress. He reaches for Draco’s pillow, resting his head on it. Just as the shirt he’s wearing, the pillow smells like him. Harry pulls the covers over his body and stares out the window as the sky begins to cloud over. He doesn’t cry, shout, nor is he angry — nothing feels right.

  


* * *

  


Draco breaks down on the commute. All the feelings he’s been holding back for the last Merlin knows how many hours rush to the surface at once. He cries for thirty minutes straight, oblivious to the people around him. When he steps off the tube, he takes the longest route possible to reach the Muggle bookshop he’s been working in for a couple of years. He _has_ to calm down and look somewhat presentable. 

When he enters the shop, he walks straight to the room in the back to put his things down and throws a quick glance at the mirror. Deciding that he looks okay considering, he gets to work. 

He opens the parcels that arrived overnight, matches the books to the person who’s ordered them, counts the money in the till and, finally, flicks the sign to _open_. He goes through the motions of restacking books, putting out new ones and helping the few customers that come through the door despite the heavy rain. He tries to read the book he’s stored under the counter when nobody’s in the shop and all the work is done, but he puts it back after not being able to read a single word.

It’s almost closing time when the bell rings once more. Draco straightens himself from the stooping position he’s been in and looks ahead to greet the customer. 

“Hel—,” Draco stops when he sees that it’s his favourite, Hermione Granger.

“Granger,” he nods to her. 

“Hi, Malfoy,” she smiles at him, “I’d like to pick up the books that I’ve ordered.” 

But Draco’s head is still trying to catch up. _It’s Granger. Here. Harry’s best friend._

He wonders what he’ll tell her and her husband when Draco won’t join the pub quiz nights anymore. The four of them met in different Muggle pubs over the last months. Initially, Draco just tagged along to support Harry because he was sure that, if asked by Weasley, he would certainly share a pitcher with his best friend. But soon, he looked forward to seeing them and spending time with them. Draco loved to compete against Hermione in questions about Muggle literature. 

At their first meeting, Harry told the pair a fabricated story about how they’d met and that they were now sort of friends. It disturbed Draco to discover how easy it was for Harry to fill the basic storyline they’d agreed on with so much detail that Draco himself began to doubt his own memories. It pained him to hear Harry talk about what they had as if they were just friends, although they hadn’t really spoken about what they were. So, that night, Draco decided to not share his feelings, ever. 

When the couple came over to the flat, Harry insisted that they’d use the front door and ring the bell instead of simply popping in. His excuse being that they — no, _he_ — lived in a Muggle building. In reality, he probably just wanted to prevent unannounced visits and unwanted questions. They always hid — mostly by means of magic — Draco’s things when Harry’s best friends dropped in for a visit. The first few times they came over for dinner, Draco had to pretend not to know his way around the kitchen. 

“Draco?” Hermione frowns at him, he snaps back to the present. 

“Yeah… The books, right. I’ve added them up already,” he reaches for her order receipt. She hands him the money and Draco puts it in the register. He looks over her shoulder to check for other people before locking the door without incantation or wand. 

He asks her to come to the back room with him. She usually orders so many books that they just leave them in there. She waves her wand, making the books hover mid-air, and places her handbag on the table next to the books. The pair watch the volumes disappear into the bag. All that is left now is to say… 

“Goodb—uhh,” Draco finds himself in an unexpected tight embrace. 

“You’ll check in on him, right?” she asks without preamble. 

Draco frowns, he isn’t sure what to make of that.

“You promise me to look after Harry, right? Because w-we can’t—we won’t,” she stammers. “Just promise me, okay?” 

She looks sadly, yet hopefully, at Draco when she releases him. 

“Sure,” he chokes out. 

Hermione nods and smiles at him, relieved. “Goodbye, Draco Malfoy.” 

After that, she taps her wand against the doorknob before she exits the shop without another word, leaving him behind, still puzzled. Her last words were spoken with such finality that Draco’s mind is working overtime. 

_How in Salazar’s name am I supposed to check on him, now? Why can’t they do that? They’re his best friends and FUCK! Are they… No, they can’t be leaving, not_ now _. How long has Harry known? That must be why…_

Draco makes a decision right there and then. He scribbles a note, places it with today’s money in the safe and then throws his bag over his shoulder. Once the shop is closed, the keys are thrown into the mailbox. 

It's all or nothing now. 

He runs.

  


* * *

  


Harry is woken by knocking on his front door. He gets up, rearranges his glasses and walks, still half asleep, to the door. He doesn’t even know what time it is or how long he’s slept for. 

When he opens the door, he’s pushed back against the wall. Someone, no, _Draco_ is kissing him. He closes his eyes but is in utter shock, so he doesn’t even kiss back. He barely hears the door being kicked shut. 

When the lips are gone, the body is as well. He shakes his head, running after him. 

“Draco,” he says when he finally catches up with him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He grabs the Draco’s wrist as the man storms towards the bedroom. 

“Please don’t stop me, now. I know I won’t go through with it if you do.” Draco pants vigorously. 

“I— What? Go through with what? Draco what’s wrong?” Harry asks, confused. 

“ _Everything_ ,” he says, voice shaky. “Can’t you see how wrong it all is? I can’t take it anymore, Harry.” 

Harry really is trying to catch up but his brain is still half asleep. He grabs Draco by the shoulders when he tries to walk on, forcing him to stop and look at him. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“This. Us. Why do we _never_ talk? What are we scared of exactly?” 

“Well… I…”

Draco interrupts Harry’s thoughts. 

“I can’t stand it anymore. Seeing you like this. This job, this _life_! It’s holding you hostage and it’s killing me. It’s slowly killing _you_!” Draco heaves a breath as Harry lets the words sink in. “I think we should run away. Not forever, but right now I don’t want to be here any longer. And neither do you.”

“This is mad. You’re mad. I…” Harry’s brain overflows with information and emotion. 

“Salazar, I know. I already feel like a bloody Gryffindor. Will you come with me?”  
Harry rubs his forehead with his fingers, continuing to have difficulties to catch up with him. 

“Draco, wait. I’m trying to… YES.” He doesn’t mean to shout, but he isn’t fully in control of himself. Harry realises that there's nothing that keeps him here anymore, not when Draco wants to leave. 

Draco breaks away and Harry watches him as he reaches for a small bag similar to his own. With a wave of his wand, clothes and other items fly into it. 

His heart starts pumping rapidly. A shiver runs over his body. Harry has been hiding so much for so long he doesn't really know where to start.

More on instinct than conscious decision, he cups Draco's face and captures his lips with his own, feeling Draco's hands come up to his cheeks. 

"I don't want to hold back anything anymore. I love you."

  


* * *

  


There they are. The words Draco wanted to hear for so long but was certain he never would. He closes his eyes and chuckles; it just feels so surreal.

"I love you too, Harry Potter." But he can feel something’s still on Harry’s mind; he holds him really tight. 

"You’ll stay with me, right?" 

In lieu of an answer, Draco kisses him again before pushing the bag into Harry’s arms. There’s no time to waste; they’ll end up staying otherwise. And they can’t do that. 

They have no destination, no plan. And Harry isn’t the most stable person at the moment, but he’s certainly one of the most powerful wizards he knows. He could explode at any moment. The odds are against them. Running like this could be suicide, but Draco doesn’t care. He trusts they’ll keep each other safe as they’ve done all these past months. 

They grab the last things, Draco shrinking everything so it fits in his pockets while Harry gets dressed, and then they leave the flat. As they run down the stairs, Draco realises that this is the first time in six months that they’re leaving the building holding hands. 

Stepping outside the building, Harry instinctively checks his surroundings. He’s told Draco more than once that reporters have lurked about for when he’s left the building or come home. But right now, the coast seems to be clear. So they run.

_Run. Run. Run._

They stop at the nearest apparition point and Harry turns to him, his magic starting to flare again. 

“Will you stay with me, my love?” 

Draco nods instantly. 

“Until we're old and grey. I don’t intend to leave you again.” His magic retreats again; it seems that all Harry needed to hear were these words. To hear them spoken out loud. 

Harry pulls Draco in close and kisses him as he whips his wand. There’s a crack. And then they’re gone. 

_Run. Run. Run._

**Author's Note:**

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